~ The Writings of S.L. Woodford

Monthly Archives: December 2013

As you may have guessed from one of last week’s posts, early December was a time of deadlines for me. With six pieces due to various publishers in a two-week time span, my life became a model definition of the word entropy. Books piled up on my desk, dishes stacked themselves in my sink, and dirty laundry piled up on my floor, as I tapped away at essays, paper proposals, blog posts, and articles. I drank obscene amounts of tea and undertook elaborate procrastination schemes, like organizing my closet and catching up on my mending. Most of my weekends and many of my evenings after work found me working at my laptop, baggy-eyed and sweat-shirted, as my thick, bobbed hair–the receiver of my nervous fingers–curled away from my head in alarming angles.

All the while, I was tired and anxious, anxious that I wouldn’t produce good work, anxious that I wouldn’t meet my deadlines. But word by word, paragraph by paragraph, page by page, I completed each piece.

With six pieces due to various publishers in a two-week time span, my life became a model definition of the word entropy.

In terms of my current writing ability, all of the pieces contained some of my best writing. A happy illusion that I know will neatly fall away in the next few months as I learn more about life and grammar. I shall re-read these pieces then and blush, thinking of all the ways I could have told the story in clearer and more poignant ways. Yet, I shall also find one idea, one sentence, one metaphor in each of those re-reads that perfectly crystallizes my experience of truth–gently reminding me that if I continue to endure weeks over-flowing with deadlines, I shall become a writer I can respect.

Writing can be tough; especially, when I’ve been looking at a white, blank screen for hours. But, there is also a joy and an anticipation in those silent moments. I always hope that something wonderful will soon appear on that empty screen, making the wait worth it.

In my latest piece for HartfordFAVS, I explore the ways that writing, my city, and the Advent season all wait for something to be created out of nothing.

Outside my closed window, snow falls to the ground—swirling out over green grass and brown, shriveled leaves, drifting into soft, fluffy piles. A similar scene is occurring in my apartment. Inside the warmth of an oven-heated kitchen, stiff white peaks swirl and form as I stir milk into a pot of mashed potatoes. A few feet away sits a dish, full of browned meat, dotted with the yellows and oranges and greens of winter squash and broccoli. It patiently waits for the peaks in the bowl to fall out and drift over its textured top.

In the solitude of my winter kitchen, I am making Shepherd’s pie.

I first encountered Shepherd’s pie on a college exchange program in London. Along with a book and a beer, it would accompany my late afternoon pub study sessions. There, its meat was adorned with carrots, peas, and corn—vegetables bought from the frozen section of the local Sainsbury’s. When my months in England finished, the recipe came back with me over the Atlantic. I made it all the time as a graduate student in New England. Once, I prepared it for Easter dinner, replacing carrots, peas, and corn with lamb, leeks, and mushrooms. As the soft, spring air seeped in through an open kitchen window, I stirred milk into a pot of mashed potatoes as two dear friends sat at the kitchen table, cutting leaks and mushrooms. After I emptied the pot’s contents, they asked if they could have it. I gave them the pot, and, with spoons in hand they began to scrape it clean, turning a pair of thirty-year-olds back into children.

Inside the warmth of an oven-heated kitchen, stiff white peaks swirl and form as I stir milk into a pot of mashed potatoes.

No soft spring air seeps in through my current kitchen window. Outside, snow still falls to the ground—swirling out over green grass and brown, shriveled leaves. In my silent kitchen, I am far from an English pub and I am far from my friends.

Waiting in American lines makes me anxious. The New York City subway system always reminds me of this. When the train pulls in, people huddle on line in bloated, snake-like waves. There is barely enough room for those in the soiled cars to squeeze out before a large wall of flesh counter-shoves its way into the daily commute.

How can I be calm when those subway doors open? Especially when thoughts begin to shove for precedence in my brain. Thoughts like:

“Ugh, I hope we all move faster, I don’t want to be crushed by the doors.”

“Seriously? They seriously expect more people to fit into that car? I should have brought some Crisco with me.”

“Wow, I think I just got called a freckled whore in Welsh. And I don’t have freckles.”

The experience becomes even worse when I am with someone. Then, I end up worrying about the safety of my companion. Heaven forbid if you get separated by those automatic doors…

How can I be calm when those subway doors open?

Those stuffy, sweaty New York tunnels make me pine for the London Underground. There, when a train pulled into the station, people neatly lined up on either side of the car door, giving fellow passengers a wide birth to alight. If someone bumped into you as you silently moved from platform to car, they would quickly mutter “sorry.” Of course, “sorry” could have the same connotations as the f-word, depending on the inflection–but, even in their annoyance, my fellow passengers contributed to a traveling environment that was quiet and respectful. I never felt anxious in the London Underground. Unlike New York, I got to experience waiting for my train without anxiety or fear.

For most of my life, I wait like I am on line in a New York subway rather than in the London Underground. Questions like these daily plague my mind:

“Am I saving enough money?”

“Am I advancing professionally in a timely manner?”

“Am I choosing my friends and lovers wisely?”

Yet, in the midst of swirling anxiety and fear I know that I am not alone. Others struggle with this as well. Henri Nouwen once wrote that it is hard to give up control of our lives and allow for God to define us, “trusting that God molds us according to God’s love and not according to our fear.”

What a beautiful thought: defining our lives by expansive Divine love and hope rather than by jostling fear and anxiety. Thoughts I find comforting to ponder this first week of Advent. I must wait this month not in fear of my life’s constant questions, but in peace. For it is the very act of God made flesh that creates a quiet space for renewal and redemption on earth.